Walburga's Wrath
by RainyDaysAndGoodBooks
Summary: Walburga Black may only be a portrait, but she's still extraordinarily vengeful, and she's certainly not going to let a little thing like not having a body get in her way. It's time for a little revenge.


**Character: Walburga Black (Portrait)  
OPTIONAL PROMPTS: sinking, tree, eager  
**  
Walburga Black was irritated. It wasn't that light kind of irritation that roars through your chest when you don't get your way and fades with the morning, but a deep, restless kind of irritation that sinks to the bottom of your stomach like a rock. Time was moving too fast, old ideals were being forgotten, and the grandeur of the Black name seemed to be fading.

And there was only one way to make that feeling go away.

"Kreacher," she screeched like a barn owl swooping down upon its prey.

Her loud voice echoed through the empty house. There were no witches in the house, no wizards, nor any humans at all. Walburga had been a witch once, but now she was a portrait, trapped forever in the carved oak frame of her canvas. In fact, the only living thing in this house was a house-elf, an old one with only the dirt stained fabric of an old sheet to clothe itself with and a bundle of rags to sleep in. Its name, however uncreative, was Kreacher, and he was currently scurrying toward her like a rat left in the dark for far too long.

"Yes, mistress," Kreacher mumbled, bowing so low his nose left a trail of grime in the freshly polished floor.

"Bring me the family tree."

Kreacher straightened up, his large nose gleaming with polish, his eyes eager as a child in a candy shop, and hurried off.

Walburga occupied herself with mentally tallying the other pureblood families who still possessed as much power as the Blacks. The number was practically miniscule, and she smiled with satisfaction, forgetting for a moment, that she and her husband were no longer alive and her sons were in no position to maintain the power of the Blacks either. _The Abbots,_ she listed, _the Greengrasses, the Fawleys—_

She was interrupted by the low rumbling of Kreature's voice. "It won't come off, Mistress."

"Well, make it!" she snapped, tired of sniveling house elves and their flimsy excuses.

She could hear the sounds of bangs and scratches, mingled with the low murmurs of Kreature and his cries of disappointment as he fell flat on his back once again.

"Hurry up!" she shrieked, running her fingers along the soft velvet of the curtains framing her painting and feeling the violent urge to rip them down like petals off a daffodil as her chest tightened.

"Can't," Kreacher sobbed. She could hear a muffled thump as he threw himself on the floor like a dirty rag.

Walburga gritted her teeth, wishing more than ever, that she could hex, kick, punish the house elf in any way. But she was merely a painting no matter how powerful she had once been, and she could no more touch Kreature than she could walk out of this house. Kreacher was loyal though, and any punishment she issued, he would follow. A smirk crept across her lips and then melted abruptly as she remembered the task at hand. And as much as Walburga hated house elves, she hated the idea of being without one even more. So she gritted her teeth once more and called out to the now distraught house elf.

"Read me the names, you useless wrench."

The sniveling subsided, and with one last sniff, Kreacher was ready. "Phineas Nigellus Black," Kreacher began. "Ursula Flint Black, Elladora Black," he continued, droning on like a lazy wasp on a summer's day. "Arcturus Black, Violetta Bulstrode Black."

Walburga could feel the bones in her body relaxing, her taut muscles melted, and the stress rolled off her like water droplets off the enchanted fabric of her peacock patterned rain cloak. On and on he went, and Walburga basked in the prestige of the nearly limitless Black line. "Bellatrix Lestrange, Narcissa Malfoy, Sirius Black—" he was interrupted by a shriek of rage that sprang unbidden from Walburga's cherry red lips.

"Do not speak to me of that loathsome blood traitor. He is as unworthy of the name Black as that vile Andromeda turned out to be."

"Mistress, oh Mistress, Kreacher only thought—"

"Do not 'oh Mistress,' me." There was a snap in her voice that cracked like a whip.

"But Mistress, Sirius is next in line for the house of Black, and Kreature only hoped he had been made ready to lead."

The realization struck Walburga like an icy slap, and she froze in shock. "He has been disowned," she said. "Surely—"

"Kreacher can feel his pull Mistress," the house elf croaked, and she was too enraged even to punish him for disrupting her.

"He can't- That won't- As if—" she stuttered, too inflamed to be coherent.

When Walburga had been alive, her wrath had been a force to be reckoned with. Other purebloods had cowered beneath her rage, remembering the flow of poisoned wine, cursed letters, and bewitched dress robes that had mysteriously plagued those that had overstepped their boundaries until they had either apologized or simply vanished. Even her children had feared her anger, but now, now there was nothing she could do. There was no witch to cower at her words, no wizard to do as she said. She was completely and utterly powerless.

The realization washed over her like a tidal wave and she felt as though she was sinking, helplessly into the musty depths of insignificance **.**

Sirius Black was going to inherit the house and there was nothing she could do. He would glide through her home with that arrogant manner, disrespecting the artifacts of her forefathers, wiping mud on her slick mahogany floors, and perhaps—the thought sent dread spiraling through her stomach—inviting his awful, halfbreed friends to this place of grandeur.

"Kreacher," she shrieked. "If that worthless Sirius comes here to claim his inheritance, you must stop him. I will not allow such scum near my home."

"If the Master wants in the house, Kreacher can not stop him. Kreacher must help him. Master is the last living descendant of the house of Black. Kreacher must obey."

"Well, _I_ order you not to follow his wishes, Kreacher," Walburga barked, but she already knew it was pointless.

"Kreacher has no choice," the elf croaked miserably, tears pouring off his shrunken nose, and colliding soundlessly with the spotless floor. "Kreacher _must_ serve the next living descendent of the Blacks. Oh, if Kreacher could choose, you can be sure he wouldn't choose that filthy mudblood loving little brat. But Kreature has no choice. No choice."

Walburga screamed with anger and pounded her fists on the wooden frame of her painting. But there was nothing she could do. She was dead and so were Orion and Regulus, and everything would go to that nightmare of a pureblood, that embarrassment of a son, Sirius.

The pure unfairness of it all stung almost as sharply as the fact that there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. Nothing at all. Except. . . It was petty and pointless and exactly at her level. So Walburga Black straightened up, smoothed down her robes and opened her mouth composedly.

"Kreacher," she said. "I order you not to clean a speck of dirt out of this house."

Kreacher looked as though he had just bitten into a particularly sour lemon, but he clenched his tiny fists and bowed low.

"Yes, Mistress," he said, and Walburga felt the slim stirrings of satisfaction slithering through her chest.

The swells of irritation, so frustrating earlier, had vanished.


End file.
